Life
by dreaming-in-pretenses
Summary: There's no happy ending here for the lovebirds. This is a story of death. You try to soar, but your wings are clipped. You try to sing, but your voice is gone. Infected with the illness, you suffer for a while, and then you either die or are condemned to a life of numbness. Living, but dead. Death fic. Some Maya/Cam


Title: Life  
Characters/Couples: Maya, mentions of Maya/Cam  
Rating: PG-15  
Warnings: Character death. Implicit discussions of suicide, suicidal thought, mental illness and depression  
Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.  
Summary: There's no happy ending here for the lovebirds. This is a story of death. You try to soar, but your wings are clipped. You try to sing, but your voice is gone. Infected with the illness, you suffer for a while, and then you either die or are condemned to a life of numbness. Living, but dead.  
Notes: This is a very dark fic, explicitly dealing with death, suicide, mental illness, depression and suicidal thoughts. If you think there is any chance at all that it will trigger you, please do not read. Also, this was written in a very experimental style. I'm not quite sure what I think about it, so any feedback would be most appreciated. Thank you! :)

* * *

"**Life"**

**By: dreaming-in-pretenses**

* * *

The day Campbell Saunders kills himself you're at home, stuck in bed with a bad cough and a high temperature. You're delirious from the fever, almost to the point of complete giddiness. There's a fire burning in your forehead through your very bones, but you think it is only heat pooling in your stomach. You're on cloud nine. Your name is Maya Matlin, fourteen years old and in love for the very first time, and you think it is this love that has set your body aflame.

You don't realize he's infected you with his sickness.

* * *

You don't actually hear the news until three days after it happens; your illness had gotten worse throughout the week, to the point that you needed hospitalization, and your parents didn't want to burden you at such a troubling time.

But eventually you had to be informed. You were the closest person to him; the _only_ one, really. You have to be questioned. And there are _so _many questions. The police want to know if he had ever expressed any suicidal thoughts or intentions. The school principal wants to know if he had possibly been bullied, if anyone had secretly been tormenting him and thus driving him to such a final act.

And his family wants to know if he had ever mentioned anything negative about them. They aren't accusatory toward you – simply desperate. They are tormented with the idea that perhaps they were to blame. Perhaps they hadn't listened to him enough. Perhaps they had pushed him too hard to accept his new life at Degrassi, not realizing that it was killing him more and more every day.

The day you return to school the school therapist makes a speech to the student body. She too speaks of who to blame, attributing Cam's death to a strong and overwhelming depression. She tells you all not to blame yourselves; no one could have known the depth of his pain, could have known he suffered at all. Cam Saunders wore a mask, and a damn good one. His suicide, she says, was one final, desperate plea for someone to see through the mask – to tell them he really was depressed and to beg them for answers, for suggestions, for advice on how to achieve even a glimmer of happiness. He chose the most absolute way to tell them that forcing himself to be happy just wasn't working.

_Don't blame yourselves,_ she emphasizes again and again, and though she speaks to an entire audience of stunned, hushed, disbelieving students, you feel she is speaking directly to you. Staring straight into your eyes, into your dimmed soul and numb heart, and trying to will away any self-blaming thoughts. _You couldn't have known._

She, or some other faceless therapist, talks to Cam's family as well. You know because your parents tell you, urge you not to worry about them because they have been told over and over again not to blame themselves. Cam needed therapy, they tell you. He needed to talk to someone who could help him. Simply forcing himself to be happy wasn't cutting it.

There is no one to blame, they say. Your eyes are open, but unseeing. Deep inside, your mind is trapped in the past, searching for happier days.

Instead, you see regret.

That night, you dream in vibrant memories. Wake up with understanding burning through your veins and the words still fresh on your tongue.

* * *

"_I just want to be happy, Maya."_

"_Good. Then _be happy!_"_

* * *

Who to blame, indeed.

Your heart is numb. The hospital cleared you of all disease but the illness is coursing through your veins still: One last revenge Cam Saunders bestowed onto his tormenter as he smashed into the ground.

You had been blind to his pain even when he spoke out. Now you have full vision, as the illness gnaws at what is left of your heart.

* * *

He always reminded you of a little songbird. He looked into your eyes, and all you could think was that an innocent, beautiful, mesmerizing bird was staring back at you. You never thought too deeply about _why_ he reminded you so strongly of a songbird. At the time, you figured it was because he was shy, withdrawn, scared to let his defenses down and his voice ring out in front of so many unfamiliar people - but once he got to know them, once they got past his terrified exterior and got to know the boy underneath, he was able to overcome his fear and let his song, one so shockingly pure so utterly captivating, out. Sometimes he sang through an inspiring karaoke performance; other times, it was through a wonderful performance on the ice. Either way, he was mesmerizing in these moments. And you were so proud of your talented songbird, who you thought just needed to be understood in order to sing his breathtaking song.

It isn't until you see him lying lifeless in a cold, white, blank coffin that you realize the truth: that he was a songbird who _had_ no voice, whose voice had been stripped away from him in the shock of losing his wings. He tried to soar but he was held down. By gravity. By people who held too many expectations for him. By people who wanted him to fly even when he said it was too much. By people who told him it was a phase and he'd get better at flying, even though he couldn't even _walk_. He was held down by people like _you_, who pushed him to sing even as they clipped off his wings.

And with no other choice, with no other options, he tried. One bright Tuesday afternoon, Campbell Saunders stood on the roof of Degrassi and jumped off.

He tried to soar**, **but he fell six feet in the ground.

You had been so wrong about your little songbird. But you aren't surprised, because by now your heart is numb with the knowledge that you were wrong about a lot of things regarding Cam Saunders and your relationship with him.

You were wrong about life and love.

But you tell yourself you don't care.

_So numb._

* * *

You try to immerse yourself in numbness, but life goes on for the rest of the world, and you watch as they bury Cam Saunders in the earth with his hockey jersey.

"He _hated_ hockey!" you want to shout, but you know that if you do all the eyes be on you – eyes brimming with harsh accusations. You already face those eyes enough when you are forced to look at the pale, blank, lifeless ghost in the mirror every morning. You're not sure you could stand a whole crowd of these eyes. So you stay silent. A fly on the wall? No. A small bird clinging desperately to the tiny branch it is perched on. Trying not to give in, fall, and repeat history.

Everyone is aware you are there, but no one knows what it really _means_.For you or for the slab of ivory steel in the ground. Someone actually expects you to sing for him, but you couldn't even if you wanted to; your voice, too, has been stripped away.

Instead, far too late in the game to truly matter, you _listen_. The coffin remains silent, its voice silenced for all of eternity. But its onlookers blabber on in obnoxious whispers, oblivious or indifferent to the tiny bird precariously hanging on her branch.

* * *

_They buried him with his jersey? What was the point of that? Not like he's gonna need it where he's going._

_They had nothing else to bury him with. He _literally_ had _nothing_ else. No real belongings. No prized possessions. _Nada_. The kid was a walking timebomb._

_It was only a matter of time, really…_

* * *

_It was only a matter of time_.

_No one to blame. _

_Only a matter of time..._

They ramble on; you've stopped paying the slightest bit of attention. These words run through your brain, instinctively you test them out in your mind. Tear them apart syllable by syllable, letter by letter.

_Only a matter of time..._

_ Noonetoblame…_

_On ly a ma tter of time…_

They still don't make any sense. No matter how closely you read the words, you just can't make meaning of them.

Or maybe you don't want to make sense of them. Maybe you don't want to accept the blame, though the mirror blames you with its harsh, unblinking eyes, and the night blames you with hisses that sound like a certain hockey cursing out your name, and even your friends blame you, with their calm voices betraying a sense of confusion and wonder.

Everyone asking with their eyes, _how could you not have known? _

_Weren't there any signs? _

_Yes_, you think, shaking your head.

_No,_ you think, nodding.

The therapist says it wasn't your fault. Your family says it wasn't your fault. Mr. Simpson says it's not your fault. Even his mother, with his gentle smile, and his youngest brother, with his loving eyes, say it's not your fault.

_But-_

-_"Good. Then _**be happy**!_" –_

You turn your mind and heart off.

The sickness is inside of you.

He gave it to you. You are infected, diseased.

You are numb, and you just don'tcan'twon'trefusetoevereverever_ever_ care.

* * *

The sun sets on the freshly overturned dirt in the ground. The sun rises on the window of a girl who has not slept, who has gone to school two hours early because what else _is _there to do, when you're numb and blank and uncaring and sick of it all?

You walk through the halls, silent, almost mindlessly letting the giggles and gasps of gossiping teenagers fill your ears.

They've all got the sickness, you think to yourself, this is how it starts. You start with a dream, with a hope, with a love. Phase one.

We all start with a sickness. Is the goal of humankind to stay in phase one? To remain ignorant to your disease? Is it to overcome the disease and prosper regardless?

You think of flattened birds smashed on the ground. Pure white coffins concealed in earth. Sleeping boys, stained in dirt and smothered in useless hockey jerseys.

In sleep, there is peace. It is almost as good as having a fever. Nothing bad happens to you when you sleep; you can sleep peacefully forever if you so choose, with just a quick leap of a school building. In this way, maybe it's even better than the euphoria you fell in your love-sick-induced fever. Because that happiness, that perfect pleasure doesn't last. You can't top perfection, and you'll never get close to it again. But in sleep you can always find a constant, comforting lull. Relaxing and tranquil. Soothing and calming. Almost like the caress of a treasured parent figure; no matter how old you get, you always find comfort in their embrace.

Cam had always missed that touch. Missed it so much he tried to soar to it.

He never made it to the destination of his dreams, but now he would dream of it forever.

A constant peace.

Maybe, you think, that is the true goal of humankind. Give in to the sickness. Close your eyes. Accept the peace it offers.

You give it a try when you get to your next class; close your eyes, fall into a quick slumber on top of your desk.

* * *

_You dream of two small trapped birds. _

_You put a bullet through one; it shoots right through that bird and into the second, lodging itself in that small bird's heart._

_The first bird dies instantly. The second falls to the floor, bleeding, but still living. _

_The life fades from its eyes, but it carries on. _

_**Living, but dead inside. **_

* * *

**Peace, at last... **

**she whispers**

**and her voice is solemn**

**her eyes are blank**

**she cannot think **

**for thinking **

**breaks the spell. she**

**will not know her**

**peace lasts only as long**

**as reality is enshrouded**

**behind the facade of dreams. **

**she cannot move**

**for even the smallest step**

**might break the spell. **

**she put a bullet**

**through her own head**

**and prayed it was enough**

**not telling the smallest**

**bit of dreamer still within her **

**that dreams are peaceful**

**dreams can't hurt you **

**you can't die in a dream**

_**and she**_

_**will**_

_**wake **_

_**up-**_

**peace, at last...**

**she whispers, **

**and-**

* * *

You wake with a start, the serenity broken by your teacher's stern and loud voice.

You don't respond to his accusatory glare, instead looking around at the accusatory eyes peering at you from all angles of the room. Sick people everywhere. None of them aware of the illness they carry in their bloodstreams, bones, souls. Only you know. But awareness isn't enough to overcome this disease, and it lives on inside of your weary, increasingly numbed heart.

The accusations are hurting a lot less now.

You don't feel very much anymore.

* * *

At lunchtime you are forced to sit with Tori, Tristan and Zig. They're all friends again, in light of this Tragedy. You think of it with a capital T, even in your own thoughts, because that's how they refer to Cam's death, life, even his very existence – as The (insert hushed, overdramatized, ridiculously emphasized tone here) _Tragedy_.

They don't say his name anymore. No one does. You begin to wonder if you dreamed up the name Campbell Saunders, if you instead had dated a boy with no name. Rather fitting, that the world who made one boy feel so invisible would forget his name entirely once it had wiped his very existence out.

You're the only one who mentions Cam by name now, and even then it is only in your head. You can't bring yourself to say it out loud. Saying it aloud would be acknowledging that you were really the only one who saw him, who heard him, who could have saved him. You won't acknowledge that. You _can't_.

You refuse to give in to the twinge of something – guilt? love? pain? – biting at your heart, so instead you inject an extra dose or ten of numbness in your veins.

They notice the change, the three once-mortal-enemies, and in their desperation to save you from yourself, they grow closer than ever together. You are too numb to notice or care.

They grow close. You drift away.

A week later you stop going to the cafeteria altogether.

* * *

Three weeks after Cam Saunders has died you find yourself with nothing left but music. You can't bring yourself to sing anything – your voice is still halted, trapped in your throat by something beyond your control. But you can play. And, more importantly to WhisperHug at the moment, you can write. So you distract yourself with writing.

You write of a song of fevers. It's a good song, you think. Mo said you needed to write something cheery, and fevers were the cheeriest topic you could think of. You remember the giddiness you felt in the throes of the fever, how deliriously happy and at peace you were. You think you might have even experienced nirvana at that moment; enlightenment. It was in that bed, drenched in a cold sweat and buried in blankets, that you experienced the greatest joy you have ever felt in your entire life. And once you've experienced the best, it's all downhill from there. You haven't felt that since. You know you won't feel it again.

You write of a girl trapped perpetually in that feverish moment. She's forever confined to the sickbed she sings her ballad from, but she doesn't mind. The perfect happiness she feels is worth it all. She's naïve in love, innocent to how it can go downhill, blind to the fact that the illness coursing through her veins is more than just unadulterated and unconfined love.

But it's okay. Because she's just a character confined to the lines of the song. She doesn't have to grow up and face reality. She can bask in her happy fever forever. You're giving her the happy ending you were denied.

It's almost therapeutic, in a way. You could never articulate this, but you are escaping from the sickness around you through her, using a sort of denial to rewrite the ending you were given, to fight past the numbness of your illness.

It almost works, too. You almost start to really feel a semblance of – something.

But then Mo reads it. And hates it. Tears it apart, really. He thinks it's too symbolic and weird. He says he asked you to write something cheery for your benefit, to help ease your pain.

He didn't want you forcing yourself to write for the band, because all it led to was that - crap.

He didn't want you faking cheeriness with such - drivel.

People didn't really feel things like that, he said. Write about something that will _really_ make you happy.

* * *

_But that was the greatest happiness you had ever known…_

_You are being denied a chance to retreat within happy memories, to mentally relive good times. Without them, there is nothing left. Without your denial, without your hiding place, you have nothing._

_And in response your heart freezes over. The sickness wins._

_**Maya Matlin snapped.**_

* * *

You don't write a single song again. You never even glance at your cello.

No sounds come from your throat or your fingers now.

Your voice was silenced. Your wings were clipped.

You have nothing left.

You're tired of writing.

You're tired of playing music.

You're even tired of singing. Not that you could do _that _even if you wanted to.

You're just so, _so_ tired.

Of trying.

Of **living**.

So, one day you just – _stop._

* * *

_So_

_numb…_

* * *

And the sad thing is, nobody notices.

Or if they do, they don't say anything. Their words are full of artificial happiness, much too cheery, just – _too_ much. They hope to rub their forced happiness onto you, wanting things to just go back to normal.

As if they ever did for Cam. As if they will ever will for you.

_Just because it's an invisible illness doesn't mean it's not real. _

A perpetuating cycle, you think, smiling wryly.

The smile doesn't reach your eyes.

* * *

"_I don't understand," you whispered to him; one of the only truly honest conversations the two of you ever really had. "Things seemed better. You seemed like you were so much happier, Cam. Why…Why did you hurt yourself again?"_

_He didn't deny his self-harm, for once. He just looked you in the eyes, his own brimming with emotion you didn't want to understand, and answered the only way he knew how. _

"_It's a sickness, Maya. I'm sad and then I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tell myself that there's no need to worry anymore. But then it creeps up on me all over again, more painful than ever before. Then I'm sad again._

"_**And so the cycle continues..."**_

* * *

You wake up.

You get dressed.

You go to school.

You go home.

You sleep.

You sleep.

You sleep.

Sometimes you eat. Sometimes people talk to you. Sometimes you answer.

You sleep again.

And repeat.

* * *

"_And so the cycle continues, Maya…"_

The cycle _always_ continues. It's a sickness. In you. In everybody.

* * *

You wake up, and think of putting a bullet through your own pretty little bird head, but it seems like too much work to bother.

You can't put so much effort into anything anymore.

This is the final stage of the illness. This is when it's incurable, when it's terminal. There's no saving you now.

Living, but dead inside.

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
